Prism
There’s an attempt to make her look
alive, her hair done up,
not like she wore it
but like a ‘50s model with curls,
and there’s a blush of
make-up on her cheeks,
like a flush of orange blood.
The skin between her fingers
is papery and peeling
her nails polished with
crawling daisies painted on their
tips,
and on her left hand
her diamond engagement ring
a prism of gaiety
and in a moment I’ll shake
her husband’s hand,
which is in a fist
as he stands beside her pillowed
head.
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